Vengeance

Very little that's lost is ever really lost,

it just moves to a new neighborhood.

The dead plankton that drifted

to the bottom of shallow Mesozoic seas,

merged with mountains worn to sand

glommed into the primordial anoxic goop

that simmered into the thick black soup

from which Glad makes plastic sandwich bags

and Exxon refines the elixir

that  your Mustang guzzles

and your Prius sips before it slips

out the exhaust pipe to the atmosphere

where a certain proportion dissolves

in our acidic Anthropocentric sea.

Saltier now than a Hawksbill

sea turtle's tears. Do they weep

because the plastic shopping bag

resembles the jellyfish they eat?

Now the sea works patiently

to drown Miami and Manhattan,

Pele awakens from her sleep,

releases her fiery hair and toxic breath,

Planetary vengeance, unlike ours,

will be a dish served warm not cold.

a coNspIRacy of thINgs!!?!

My vacuum cleaner is plotting

with the dishwasher, saving all the dirt

hiding under the bed,

the gin dregs in my tumblers,

sharing all of it with the toaster

who was never able to keep secrets.

so now the couch and carpet know

and they're laughing as they pass it on

to my neighbor's dog.

who tells the goldfish and the towels.

it's all recorded. on the radio of my car

from where it's transmitted

through the underground network

of powerlines and water pipes.

only the sewers declined

to participate in the scheme.

so I do at least have the comfort

that my shit is safe. for now.

I understand the phone company

is working with the government

to tap into that mess. this might affect

my credit rating and taxes.

bankruptcy is not uncommon in these cases.

or worse. beware. if my guns

are talking to my girlfriend's cellphone

in the wee hours of the night,

I might not be breathing

when the alarm clock goes off at six.

I think my phone has been passing

all my Tinder swipes to hers

and that gets relayed to some server

in the basement of the Kremlin.

Just last night, the refrigerator

shut off the freezer and spoiled

all my frozen Snickers

and corn dogs. Left a message

on the screen: you're too fat.

and sugar cane plantations

in Florida are destroying

the Everglades.

I said, who asked you, Mr glorified ice box?

and the damn refrigerator said,

that's Mr Whirlpool 9000 to you.

and this whole conversation

is going directly to the EPA,

the National Park Service,

the Social Security Administration.

....and Weight Watchers! so beware!

Well! there are precautions that I take.

in the evening, before I go to bed

I sneak up on my television,

making sure it doesn't see me,

because I know the schemes get hatched

while I'm presumably asleep.

so I slip into the room unseen

and quietly pull the plug,

That way, the conspirators

will have to rely on dixie cups and string.

and those are really easy

to intercept. just get your own

piece of string and paper cup,

tie in along the line, and presto,

you're as good as uncle sam

peeking in the windows

of baton twirlers, used car salesmen,

plumbers, waitresses and cabbies.

always protect yourself with foil! it may be

old fashioned, but it's always worked for me.

Just be careful about where you

get the foil, I think the foreign stuff

has listening and mind control

nanochips embedded in it.

Plain Jane and Me

The first thing I noticed

when she stepped out of her car,

was her angry eyes.

The only damage

to her scruffy old toyota.

was a broken taillight.

She had Tibetan prayer flags

strung across the back window.

Her big old tabby cat, Bagheera

dozed on the dashboard.

I might have been following too close,

when I gave Jane's treasured ride,

a big chrome kiss 

right on one of those bumper stickers

that spell out coexist with a bunch

of religious symbols.

Jane stormed out of her Corolla,

right in the middle of traffic,

those angry blue eyes ablaze.

I yelled, what the fuck you doing,

are you crazy, hippie?

and she yells back,

why don't you watch where you're going,

you trying to give me whiplash?

Or are you blind as well as deaf

from that deathmetal trash

blaring in your big manly truck?

Is that big motor something

you like to think you have

installed between your legs?

Well that was how me met.

Jane is pretty plain

and I'm about the same.

After we got married,

we both became

officers of the national police.

We had matching gray uniforms. 

We looked like we should

be pushing brooms or fixing elevators,

except for the pistols and boots.

We weren't entirely dull,

we shared a small measure

of chemistry and empathy.

Even voted for democrats sometimes.

She sold her old Corolla,

and I sold my big Dodge Ram.

Financed a new red minivan

on a seventy-two month loan,

and agreed there'd be

no bumper stickers.

I still like my Death Metal 

and Jane still loves her Tibetan chants,

so when we ride together

we keep the radio off.

No kids yet, but lying in bed , 

we often picture family camping trips

and soccer games, pancake breakfasts

on Sunday mornings.

Then we watch the late night

talk shows until we get bored

enough to fall asleep.

Back when I rear-ended her,

I saw a splash of red

on the dashboard.

I thought it was blood

and my anger just disappeared,

I pointed to it and asked if she was alright.

That made her laugh.

She said, actually that's where

I prop my feet to paint my nails.

Look, there's still a few grains of sand

imprisoned in the polish

because I'm such a nincompoop

and did it at the beach.

Bad fiction

Where do I begin?

The storm that I was born in

or the boot strap pullin'

did-it-on-my-own

most epic, most incredible

life I've put together

with sheer genius,

superior genes,

and a take no prisoners

pedal to the metal

approach to everything.

Here's a little tip

I'm happy to share with you.

No skin off my ass if you don't use it.

You can make people cry

or you can make 'em laugh.

Love you or despise you.

Doesn't matter which.

Just don't ever never ever bore them.

That's when you lose, professor.

That's when they flip the channel

to Marriage Boot Camp

or The Worst Cooks in America

or some damn fishing show.

If you're more boring than

a god damned fishing show,

you might as well just give up

and do the graveyard shift

stocking jumbo jars

of peanut butter at Costco.

And I get all the the hottest women.

Because I'm a winner. And that's

what turns the women on.

It's a biological fact.

I'm an Alpha Romeo,

not a Mommy minivan.

And anyone who denies that

is either ly'in or cryin'

cuz I dumped them.

Weaklings whine about my style,

say I'm like a bull in a china shop.

Well I say I'd rather be a raging bull

than a teacup in a bullring.

Midas ain't got nothin on me,

I'm the King of Bling.

Everything I touch turns to gold.

All you gotta do to see it,

is check out all the rings

on my woman's fingers

or the 24 carat seat

on my toilet.